Quidditch Days
by SoulMalady
Summary: Puddlemere United has had a tough few decades. Now Coach Brock Lightmead has to put together a ragtag troop of players to win the 437th Quidditch World Championship.
1. The Trophy

**1.**

The swelling roar could be heard at great distances all around the Quidditch stadium. The 437th World Cup finals had its winner – the Puddlemere United by fifty points after a trying three hours against well-matched opponents, Falmouth Falcons. The harsh sun and almost still air did nothing to dampen the spirits of the enormous crowd who had shrieked and shouted through the nail biting match. Tears were shed, punches were exchanged, and happy songs erupted from each quadrant.

The winning team circled the field in triumph, whooping and celebrating joyously despite their screaming muscles and dehydration. Fans begged for any sort of memorabilia and many of the players obliged, throwing their gloves into the air and causing a mad scramble in the stands. The Falcons were already on the ground, obviously dejected by the closeness of the game. Their brooms dragged behind them, some of them half-broken as frustration caused a few members of the team to snap. While they made their way to the locker room, away from the public eye, the Puddlemere United made their descent onto the green grass. Officials and Quidditch League representatives were already on the field, surrounded by sports reporters whose cameras went off without pause. Volunteers had already placed a small stage in the middle of the field where the Head of the Quidditch League stood holding the long awaited Quidditch Cup. As he lifted it upwards, the crowd went wild. No sooner had the players touched the ground than the reporters swarmed around them.

Puddlemere United had had a tough season with many close calls that nearly forced them out of the playoffs. This comeback story was going down in history – their first win in forty years. The coach and manager, Brock Lightmead, had sprouted a whole head of grey hair over the course of eight months. He wouldn't change it for a thing at that moment. He hugged his players with wild abandon, ruffling their hair and shouting into their ears.

"And so ends the 437th Quidditch World Championship!" the announcers exalted into the microphones in unison. A band started playing on cue, jubilant song pouring into the stadium from all sides. "Puddlemere United!" The audience cheered with their voices, stamping feet, bugles, and many improvised instruments. It wasn't long before Brock was pushed onto the stage despite his mild protests. The team wanted him to be the first to hold the Cup.

The Head of the Quidditch League moved his wand to his throat and cleared it, causing the audience to quiet down a smidgen. "Thank you," he boomed, his words echoing through the stands. "Thank you for this wonderful afternoon. You have all made it magical beyond belief." The fans crowed for a moment. "Thank you to all the volunteers and sponsors. We wouldn't be here without you!" He paused for effect. "I am proud to announce… the 437th World Champions in Quidditch – PUDDLEMERE UNITED!"

Deafening noise followed as Brock accepted the trophy. He gripped it against his sweaty fingers, a fierce smile making his face ache. He took a breath, keeping this moment in mind as something he could look back on for the rest of his life. His first Quidditch World Championship. He lifted the heavy golden cup above his head, his gaze locked on his wife's teary face. She blew him a kiss from between the reporters and pressed a hand to her heart. She had put up with so much. At that moment, all Brock wanted to do was be in her arms.

He turned to his left and held the Quidditch Cup out firmly, pushing it into Harry Potter's hands. "You earned this, Captain," he said. He thumped the Seeker's back once and, with a proud nod, stepped aside to let his team get the spotlight.

Harry looked down at the trophy as reality sunk in. He could see himself against the gold, a warped reflection of his flushed cheeks, mussed black hair that stuck to his face from the sweat, and his plainly visible scar that he no longer bothered hiding. It had all be worth it. The blood and tears had amounted to this.

He glanced over at Riley Varus who was beaming at him cheekily. "Yeah, yeah," he drawled as he started walking down the line of players to give them a chance at holding their prize. "Ever the optimist."

"I told you so," Riley laughed before planting a big wet kiss on the Cup. "Have some faith."

"Always," Harry winked at the Keeper.

He then moved to the two Beaters – Hank Prow and West Lee. They had seen better days. Despite their black eyes and split lips, they were jumping from foot to foot, their hands itching to hold their winnings. They grabbed for the Cup together as fans in the stands screamed themselves hoarse to show their appreciation for the duo that had taken quite a lot of beatings through the game. Falmouth Falcons hardly played fair. But the two had held their own. They too kissed their prize with exuberance. All those nights of bruises and training had paid off. They had gotten stronger, faster, and so much braver.

Harry leaned in as they handed the Cup back. "The next ten rounds on me," he promised them. They barked in unison.

Brent Quibley, the substitute player and jack-of-all-trades, was next in line. He grinned at Harry without saying a word and savored the heft of the trophy as well as the energy from the crowd.

The Chasers were patient, at the end of the queue. First there was Mallory Fink who hugged the Cup against her. She was the only female player in the front lines. The stories she could tell about Quidditch camp… She turned her cheek as Harry brushed his lips against them. "Thank you," he said with utmost sincerity. She shook her head and swatted his arm. He was always sweetly awkward around her.

Then there was Hector O'Reilly, affectionately called Big Heck for his bulk. He contemplated the Quidditch Cup for a full minute without showing emotion on his face. Savoring the feeling? Perhaps. Harry nodded once at him and received a nod back.

Finally there was Draco Malfoy.

He kept his head down as he read the plaque at the bottom of the Cup. It had been engraved the moment the Snitch had been caught. His name was on there. _His_ name. His fists tightened around the warm handles of the trophy. The biggest part was nearly as wide as his shoulders. It was smudged by the rest of the team, the gleam hidden by sweat and fingerprints. That didn't matter. He had been part of something good for once… It felt good.

As he passed the Cup back to his captain, he looked up with tears in his eyes.

"Ah," Harry breathed out in defeat. He blindly thrust the Quidditch World Cup trophy at Hector so he could grab Draco by the nape of the neck and kiss him with all his might.

The sudden squeals and sharp yelps followed by panicked flashbulbs going off suggested that the reporters weren't asleep on the job.

Draco froze in shock, tears falling when his eyes widened.

Harry ended the liplock with a deliberate smack, his brilliant grin growing as he wound his arm around Draco. Their foreheads were pressed together and he tilted his head. "We did it," he whispered. "You did it."

Draco faltered for a second before sliding his hands over Harry's waist.

The captain laughed without care. This was the best day of his life. His first international win. He couldn't ask for a more perfect moment.


	2. First Day

**2.**

_One year ago_

Brock thumped his head against the dining table after pushing a pile of applications aside. "No more," he whined. "Please, no more."

Charlotte tsked at her husband without looking up from the form she was reading. "We haven't even started the season yet, honey," she reminded him. She tucked a loose bit of curly bronze hair behind her ear and adjusted her spectacles before making a small mark on the parchment. "How about this one?" She showed the application to Brock. "Hank Prow. Looks a bit mean, doesn't he? You want a mean guy this year, don't you?"

"Ugh." Brock's voice was muffled against his arms. Only his thick head of mousy blond hair could be seen. "Why did you marry me, Charlie? I'm a good-for-nothing. Can't even pick a team right. Can't think straight. I think I'm going to be ill…"

Charlotte smiled privately. "I've always loved a good underdog story," she remarked. "Anyway, I'm helping you, aren't I? Why aren't you happy about _that_?"

He peeked up at her, his deep brown eyes clouded with misery and a lot of love. "If it weren't for you," he sighed. He took her hand in his and kissed it. "You're the best."

"See?" Charlotte winked. "We're bonding already."

Brock laughed tiredly. "Now let's look at this Hank Prow, shall we?" He took the parchment from her hand.

Puddlemere United had fallen greatly in ranks over the past two decades. With the loss of team structure, a flurry of coaches that wouldn't stick around for longer than one season, a pressuring committee that wanted results, and a threat of shutting down the whole division, Brock Lightmead was in over his head. He had been a coach for years but he had coached the junior teams that played in countrywide championships. When he had received the offer to head the Puddlemere United three years ago, he had thought about all those times he had spent following this very team's triumphs and tribulations. He had said yes without a second thought.

He was having major second thoughts after two seasons…

He had to build a team from scratch. After the harsh blowout at the past few championship matches, Puddlemere United players had dropped like flies, moving to different teams instead of continuing to sink into a downward spiral. Men and women who did apply to the team were wannabes whose only experience was with minor league Quidditch. Playing in an international field was _nothing_ like flying around the schoolyard. Brock, the forty-year-old coach from London, was at a loss. He had advertised for the team, put the word out, tried to excite the Quidditch community with just a glimmer of hope that the Puddlemere United could make through to the playoffs this year. Nothing. He was met with nothing.

How was he supposed to get paid if he didn't have a team who could play in a single match?

"Most of these are subs at best," he finally said. "They need a lot of training. That's time we don't have. The first match is in one month. Where will I get a team by then?"

The doorbell rang.

"Oh?" Charlotte arched a wicked brow as she slowly turned towards Brock. "Speak of the devil, why don't you?"

"I didn't do it," Brock said while getting up off his chair. He glanced at the clock. It was well past dinnertime. He hadn't been expecting anyone. He made the short walk to the foyer, his mind still on the problems before him.

He wasn't expecting to open the door to Harry Potter.

"Mr. Lightmead?"

"Uh, um, yes." He quickly pulled himself together. "H-how can I help you?"

"I'm Harry Potter."

Brock knew that. Who _didn't_ know Harry Potter? He was akin to a god in these parts of the world. On top of his contribution to the end of the war, he was now gaining good standing in his post as an Auror for the British Ministry of Magic. He had gotten dozens of medals over the course of thirteen years, multiple commendations for his work for both the Muggle and the Wizarding world, many battle scars, and a name recognized worldwide for being one of the top law enforcement agents specializing in Dark Arts.

So what was he doing at the doorstep of a washed up Quidditch coach?

"How can I help you?" Brock asked again.

Harry took a deep breath in. "I want to join your team," he exhaled loudly.

Thinking that it was some sort of an elaborate joke, Brock started laughing. How absurd was this? Harry Potter coming up to him and asking for a position on the Puddlemere United… Whoever was trying to pull this off must be _very_ confident.

Harry, misunderstanding the nervous laughter, rapidly said, "I've played Quidditch at school. I'm a pretty good Seeker. Youngest, in fact. A-and I was made captain… um… later on…" He trailed off when he saw the older man's expression fall all of a sudden.

Brock could feel color draining from his face. "W-wait. You're serious?" he croaked as his throat grew dry. "You seriously want to play?"

"Yes."

"Oh my God…"

Five minutes later, Harry was sitting at the dining table with a glass of juice in his hands and the Lightmeads peering at him from across the cramped room. He shifted in his seat while keeping his head down and taking small sips of lemonade. In his plain grey shirt and dark jeans, he hardly looked threatening. Charlotte and Brock hadn't been expecting _the_ Harry Potter to be so tame.

She cleared her throat to break the long silence. "You want to join the Puddlemere United?" she asked just to make sure.

"I understand that I'm hardly qualified for this," Harry acknowledged without a trace of resentment. He set the glass on the table and locked his fingers around it. "I also understand that you're having a difficult time finding players." He looked up at Brock pointedly. "If you wouldn't mind mulling things over… I could be very valuable in the long run."

"Mulling things over?" Brock snorted before he could stop himself. "I'd be a fool to say 'no' to you."

He wasn't expecting the sharp look he received from his guest. He bit his tongue again. He didn't know why he kept blurting things out in front of a celebrity. Nerves, most likely. Harry Potter was _inside his house_. He never thought such a day would come. To say that he was star struck would be an understatement. In any case, he made sure to purse his lips tight so as not to say anything else upsetting.

Harry glanced away and picked up the glass again, taking another sip.

Charlotte was still trying to figure the strange man out. "Being on the team is going to be full-time job," she hesitated.

"I know that."

"You are going to quit your work at the Ministry?"

There was another strained silence that followed. This time Charlotte was the one who bit her tongue. She must have said something awful because Mr. Potter didn't look well at all.

He stared at the swirling juice in his cup for beat before answering. "I've already resigned."

The Lightmeads inhaled sharply.

"I know how this looks," he continued. "No, I haven't had a mental breakdown. No, I haven't done anything wrong. And no, I'm not pulling a stunt." By the frustrated way he said that, they knew that he had had to explain himself many times to many different people already. He sounded fed up and exhausted by the tenth degree questioning he had been subjected to for the past fortnight. "I just need to play Quidditch."

"But why us?" Brock wanted to know. "There has to be at least half a dozen teams that want you, Mr. Potter."

Harry shook his head firmly. "I want to play for _this _team."

* * *

Riley Varus came from a long line of Quidditch players. His parents, their parents, and _their_ parents had played all around the world – so much so that the name 'Varus' conjured an image of a speeding broom in the minds of many ardent fans. He came from old money as well. So he had absolutely no qualms with playing for the Puddlemere United despite their poor pay. He was one of two players who had stuck around for the past seven years. Now twenty-five, the dark-haired, slender-built man was among the top in his area of expertise – Keeping. Always keeping a cool head about him, he was never without a ready smile and encouraging word. He lived and breathed Quidditch.

He was the first to arrive at the pitch just before seven in the morning on the frigid autumn day. He waved at his coach who was setting up orange pylons all around the field, readying the grass for ground warm-up. Riley loved tryout season. He liked to size himself up in comparison to the 'young ones', just to make sure he was still one of the best. Over the years, he had received many, many offers from other teams who wanted to recruit him. He had been promised furnished flats, increased salary, and a cushy life. However, his sense of loyalty made him stick with the limping Puddlemere United. His mother had played for this team until the day she retired. He couldn't abandon the sentiment, no matter how many awful defeats he faced. He was always so sure that they could win the next match. There was always hope, he said.

"Good break?" Brock shouted across the field at his favorite player.

"Incredible!" Riley shouted back. He had gone to Japan for a month with his family. He never knew a place could be both exotic and modern at the same time. However, he hadn't flown in weeks because of that trip. He was practically buzzing now that he was on the field. "Can I start?"

Brock could hear the desperation in the young man's voice and he smiled. "Go on."

Riley was in the air in a matter of seconds. How he missed the earthy smell of a Quidditch pitch. He zoomed from one end to the next, grazing his fingers against the hoops as he passed by them. He wasn't particularly fast on the broom, but his reflexes were phenomenal. He could tell the trajectory of the Quaffle and prepare himself for a save in the blink of an eye. He was great at sprinting. He had trained his broom over the years to follow his slightest touch. The Nimbus was worn, had chips and cracks on the staff, and broken brushes at the back, but it was a part of his body. Having a broom in his hands had always comforted him ever since he was a child.

He made a few lazy loops around the end zone, his eyes drawing towards the gate where a lone figure lumbered down the path. He could tell who it was without having to look twice. He zoomed down at Hector O'Reilly with a loud whoop. "Hey, Heck," he cheered as he came to a stop beside the large, red-bearded man. "What's up?" He hovered by Hector's shoulder, which meant that he was still about six feet off the ground.

Big Heck grunted. Man of few words, this one. His scraggly rusty hair was tied at the back and he wore his Quidditch uniform, as always. Weighing twenty stones, a person of his size should not be able to get on a broom and take off, but he defied gravity when he flew. He was lethal with his bat. Unfortunately, his aim while hitting a Bludger away left something to be desired. He had taken out his own team members more than once with his wild swinging. But he was an excellent source of intimidation on the field. His sharp, angled face was always stony and his voice was choppy when he spoke. He wasn't used to words. He would rather say his piece on the field.

Hector and Riley went way back. They had started on the team at the same time. Despite the fact that Big Heck showed no attachment to anything at all, the two of them almost always stuck together before and after matches. Riley was the one who kept instigating conversations and Hector never showed any irritation. He was one patient Irishman.

"You won't _believe_ the things I have to tell you!" Riley said excitedly. "I've taken photos too. I'll show you after."

"Hmm."

"We stayed at this awesome resort. Very traditional. We had to sleep on mats. Had to figure that situation out pretty quickly. Once you get used to the food, it's amazing. We visited so many monasteries."

Over the course of ten minutes, the pitch was filling up with players in various stages of preparation, some of them taping up their hands, others flying circles around the field, and a few wiping down their brooms with wax. Brock surveyed the small turnout. Twenty men and women. He would be lucky if ten of them knew anything about this game.

He tried not to stare at Harry Potter who was sitting on the damp grass, stretching his legs. For some reason, none of the other players seemed to recognize him. They were too preoccupied with their own nerves. Brock figured that was for the best.

When fifteen past seven struck, he blew his whistle to gather the players together by the sidelines. "Morning," he said loudly. "Thanks for coming out today. These are preliminary tryouts. You will be evaluated by me and these two veterans." He gestured at Riley and Hector with a short wave on an arm. "Impress us."

The practice started off with a few laps around the field, which was easy enough to do. It helped them get their blood pumping. Afterwards, the twenty candidates were sent off to one end of the field by the hoops.

"When I sound my whistle," Brock instructed, "sprint to the first set of pylons. Drop down into five push-ups. Then sprint to the next set. Five sit-ups. Next set. Tag the line. Then sprint back. Three reps." He blew the whistle.

The exercise helped him decide who had endurance versus speed versus muscle. The lightest players sped through the course without many problems. While they struggled with stamina, they finished in record time. The heavier players weren't as flighty, especially at the last repetition. But most of them were able to make it through without faltering. When he blew the whistle again to mark the end of the course, the players sank to the ground panting hard and wiping sweat off their eyes.

Brock wasn't about to let them rest. "Brooms!"

With some muted grumbling, the players got up to their aching feet and trudged to the benches where their brooms awaited them. Before long they were in the air, taking the moment to breathe deep and get rid of some of their pent-up energy. Brock joined them, hovering in the middle of the loose circle centerfield. He asked the players to split themselves up depending on which position they wanted to play. Out of the twenty of them, eight were trying out to be Chasers, five as Beaters, three Seekers, and four Keepers. That worked well. He split fourteen of them up into teams, enchanting their shirts to either red or black. There were seven players per team. When required, he would ask one of the players to switch with one of the players floating by the sidelines. This way he could watch one single game progress and note down how each player affected the match.

Once the two teams were ready, Brock sent the signal to Riley to open the old chest that sat on the ground. Then he threw the Quaffle in the air, moving out the way just in time. Bludgers were set loose and it hurtled from the ground up in search of people to knock off broomsticks. Riley set the Snitch free at the end, watching it flit out of sight the moment he had let go of it.

Harry floated above the mad scramble, keeping an eye on his rival Seeker while scanning the sky for the golden ball. He struggled to keep his emotions contained. His fingers were gripping his broom hard, almost painfully.

He hadn't felt this euphoric in a while…

He carefully rolled his shoulders once to try and get rid of the tightness in his back. He had to concentrate now. No messing about. He had to remember how it had felt all those years ago at Hogwarts when he had last been in this position.

Brock touched down and dismounted beside Riley. He knew Hector kept the score. The man was sitting on the bench with a clipboard, avidly watching the play above him. If he was given a task, he would do it to his full capacity. Brock relied on that data. In the meantime, he pulled Riley aside for just a moment. "See him up there?" he said quietly while pointing at the farthest speck in the sky.

Riley shielded his eyes and nodded. "Mhm. What about him?"

"He's done quite well, hasn't he?"

"Sure."

"Watch him for me."

Riley glanced at Brock. "Yeah? Why?" He looked down at the chart in his hand. "I don't think I have his name down here. What is it?"

"Doesn't matter," Brock glazed over the question. "Secret weapon. You can go on up. Watch how he does."

"Okay." Riley shrugged and mounted his broom. That was interesting.

He hovered by the hoops to watch the Keepers and sporadically glanced above him to keep an eye on this mystery Seeker Brock was so excited about.

The black team was clearly superior in chasing the Quaffle towards the hoops. The two of the three Chasers played well together, going through various formations around the befuddled red team who was trying ever so hard to stop them. Riley looked down at his chart. The woman was one Ms. Mallory Fink, age twenty-one. The other was West Lee, age twenty-five. Riley placed a mark beside their names. The two of them had scored thirty points in three minutes. The red Keeper wasn't prepared for this level of playing and she was getting incredibly flustered. Meanwhile, all of the Beaters were well matched, but three out of four of them played poorly in that they weren't nearly aggressive enough. Perhaps the nature of this match made them a bit soft. Riley shook his head and sighed. It didn't matter whether the game was practice or real; every player must play their hardest. That's what he thought, in any case. How could you get better unless you tried to beat your own teammates first, right?

He was impressed by the Keeper from the black team. He was hovering by the hoops on that end, watching the dark man sweep the field with his eyes that moved with precision. He had hardly let the Quaffle through, only getting distracted when he dodged the Bludger because he didn't trust the Beaters to keep it away from him. Riley knew the trust would build eventually, so he overlooked the fumble.

He couldn't overlook the sudden glimmer by the corner of his eye though.

He whipped his head to the side in amazement, staring breathlessly at the Snitch buzzing by his ear. That had never happened before…

He looked up at the Seekers.

The Seeker in black didn't even seem to notice. But the one in red, the man Brock had asked Riley to keep an eye on, was staring right at him.

He gulped.

Harry flicked his eyes at his opponent, noting that the slight man's attention had been disturbed by the game going on below them. So he started inching towards the hoops, taking care not to make any sudden movements. In Quidditch, once both Seekers saw the Snitch, a mad scramble would ensue, almost always leading to the Snitch disappearing on them again. Harry gently leaned to the left while descending a few feet. The other Seeker hadn't even noticed.

That was all the lead he needed.

He shot off like a speeding bullet, cutting right through the middle of the game. This was the fastest way to the Snitch. He swerved past the Chasers. He knew there was no chance the other Seeker could get to the hoops before him, not unless he risked collisions. Now all he had to worry about was the Snitch. If it disappeared on him, he would be _very_ disappointed.

Riley was frozen on the spot as he watched the Seeker in red rush at him at breakneck speed. They were both going to die. He just knew it. But he was too young to die.

He flinched away just a strong gust of air brushed by his side, knocking him slightly off balance.

When he looked to his right, there he was, the Seeker holding the Snitch in his gloved hand, marveling it. He heard the man exhale shakily. What an anti-climactic catch that was…

Harry couldn't remember the last few seconds of his chase. All of a sudden the Snitch was in his hand. He examined it in wonder. This felt so right. He let out the air he had been holding. This rush, the energy of the game, the lightheadedness… Everything felt right. He had missed Quidditch more than he had imagined.

He glanced at Riley while letting out a breathless chuckle. "I caught it." He held the fluttering Snitch up. "Did you see me?"

Riley groped for the whistle around his neck.

Harry's gaze slipped past Riley's shoulder. For a second he couldn't comprehend what was coming towards them because he was still gushing from the quick win. But his honed instincts kicked in with a sharp jolt a blink later.

He grabbed Riley and spun him out the way, bracing himself as the speeding Bludger rammed into his side instead of Riley's back. "Oof," he grunted when the air got knocked out of him. He fumbled to latch onto his Firebolt before he could fall off. "Shit." Dull pain radiated into his arm and chest. So maybe he had forgotten just how brutal a Bludger could be.

Riley rapidly came to his senses and reached out to keep Harry steady. "Are you okay?" he rushed.

"Yeah," Harry coughed. "It's fine." He rubbed his ribs while wincing.

"What did you do that for?"

He paused to frown at Riley. "Because I'm a masochist," he drawled with dripping sarcasm.

"I didn't mean it in a _bad_ way," Riley mumbled. "I was just asking."

"Hmm."

"Thanks."

"So I won, right?" Harry pressed on.

Riley looked down. "Where's the Snitch?" He saw that the Seeker was holding the broom with both hands. The Snitch was nowhere to be found.

Harry gaped at him. "You saw it! I just… That's-You can't possibly… You _saw_ it!"

"No Snitch, no game."

"Argh!" he snarled while gnashing his teeth at the brat in front of him. "Seriously?"

Riley shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

Harry whipped around without another word and zoomed off because he knew that staying there a bit longer would mean bad things for the young man he had just saved from a flying Bludger. He rubbed his sore side. Stupid.

Riley smiled after the Seeker in red. He had a very cute frown.

The scrimmage lasted for an hour and half with players being subbed in and out to make different combinations of plays. The Snitch was caught four times. Both teams ended up with about the same number of points. A few players did stick out at the end – Mallory Fink (the pretty blonde Chaser from Wales) Parker Topton (a nervous looking chap who looked a little too young to be trying out for a position as Chaser), Hank Prow (a Beater with a perpetual glower on his face), West Lee (the rambunctious Chaser with a mountain of curly brown hair on his head), Brent Quibley (Keeper for the black team), and the Seeker in red who had caught two of the four Snitches.

Harry was packing up his things when he heard a quiet cough behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, only to find Riley standing there grinning down at him. "Hello again. Are you still pissed off?" He plopped down next to Harry. "I know that was totally unfair of me, especially since you had saved my life and all."

Harry went back to loading his gear, a smile flickering against his lips. "I did, didn't I?" he murmured to humor him. "You're Riley Varus?"

"Yup."

"You're quite good."

"As are you."

Harry was amused by his glibness. "You think so?"

"Of course. You _know_ you're good. You aren't fooling me with your innocent business." He then tried to peek inside the open duffle bag. "You're a natural on that broom of yours. Firebolt. Is that your favorite?"

"Mhm."

"I personally prefer a good Nimbus myself. Much more reliable. Doesn't take me for a ride, if you know what I mean."

Harry did know, in fact. "Yes, Firebolts can be a bit… temperamental at the best of times," he figured. "But it's great for Seeking. At least for me." It was also amazing during chases, as he had experienced first hand after all those years in the Auror business. But he kept that tidbit to himself.

"Can you play other positions?"

He couldn't be sure. "You could try me," he suggested.

Riley was smitten. He was incredibly partial to athletes. "I'd love to."

Harry stood up and shouldered his bag. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I'll be here." He watched the Seeker in red walk away. He had a good feeling about this one.


	3. Deceit?

**3.**

A shrill alarm woke Riley up at the break of dawn, making him start in fright. He had been blissfully without the wretched clock for many, many weeks and he had forgotten how miserable that awful clanging made him. He rolled over onto his stomach and tried to burrow into his pillows and blankets, but the alarm had been charmed so that it would only stop once he was in the bathroom, washing his face.

After putting up a good fight for three minutes, he managed to wriggle out of bed. Waking up was the worst part of his day. He stumbled to his bathroom and ran the tap so he could splash some warm water against his tired eyes. Long night. The alarm stopped much to his relief. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower before making his way downstairs. He had a quaint little two-bedroom house in the middle of one of London's richest Wizarding communities. He enjoyed living in the lap of luxury, evidenced by the house-elves who brought him his juice and toast the moment he had stepped into the airy living room.

"Morning," he said as he bent down to press a light kiss on the gorgeous blonde who was sitting on the grand chaise, reading the paper. "Didn't hear you get up." He sat beside her, tucking one leg under the other to get comfortable. "Found everything alright?"

"Hmm," she murmured absentmindedly, her attention quite obviously on the Daily Prophet. "Harry Potter's quit."

"I'm sorry?"

"He's up and quit."

"So?"

Jessica widened her pretty brown eyes and looked up at Riley who was sipping on his orange juice to hide his amusement. "What do you mean 'so'? He was supposed to be the Head Auror." With a disappointed shake of her head, she glanced at the article again. "What do you think is wrong?"

"What are you so worried about him for?" Riley laughed. "He's already had enough expectations shoved down his throat."

"Oh, is that so?" She folded up the paper and set it aside. "Pray tell."

"I think he deserves to take a break, that's all."

"But this is what he does best. He's the best at catching these criminals. If he just quits, what's going to happen? Worst yet, what does that teach all those children who look up to him? That it's alright to quit if you can't handle these so-called 'expectations being shoved down you throat'?"

"I'm _quite_ certain that's not what he's thinking…"

"Oh, how would you know?" She tsked to herself as she stole half a toast from the plate on the table. "Imagine if I just up and left in the middle of surgery."

"Ah…" Riley slid an arm around Jessica's slender waist and pulled her back. "You're a surgeon, hmm?" He nuzzled her neck.

"I knew you were too drunk to hear me," she grumbled.

"Explains your… dexterous fingers."

"Oh, shut up." Their lips melded together in an easy kiss.

That morning, he was the first player on the field again. He hoped that he would get to play this time around. As fun as it was to be a part of the selection process, he had been itching to play for much too long.

Day two of tryouts started the same way – ground exercises followed by a command for everyone to get on their brooms.

The players were split once again into groups corresponding to their desired positions. Brock took the Seekers, Hector rounded up the Beaters, and that left Riley with the Chasers and Keepers. They were going to run individual practice sessions.

Before now, Harry hadn't played with world-class players. They were a lot tougher than what he was used to. But he was in great shape from his training at the Ministry. He had stamina and strength, more than he had had back in school. He was faster and sharper than before. He had perfected many tactics for high-speed chases. He was much more comfortable in the air now. All that conditioning came in handy when Brock released a Snitch without saying a word. The three Seekers took off after it, bumping and nudging each other out of the way as they twisted into the air to get to the flighty golden ball.

Over the course of an hour, each player's speed, accuracy, and flying techniques were analyzed. In this part of the tryouts, they had to show their examiners why they were better than the others competing for the same position.

Brock watched Harry most carefully. The man had undeniable skill. From his fearless flying technique, the coach could tell that he would perform the most remarkable stunts to get his hands on the Snitch. Persistence was key while Seeking. He was also good at handling his broom, adjusting his flight according to wind speeds and braking at the right moments.

After skills were tested, a match was set up like the day before with seven to a team and players being tagged in as needed. However, each candidate was given a different position than the one they were trying out for – some of the Seekers were Chasers, the Beaters were Keepers, and so on. For obvious reasons, this game was a bit more trying.

Riley only needed to plead with Brock a _little_ bit before he was allowed to join in on the fun. He was a Chaser the first round. It had been a while since he played this position. His shirt was charmed to black and he swooped down to his team who floated by the hoops on the south end. The other two Chasers were the Seeker in red and the Keeper in black from the day before. He was very pleased by how unfazed the two of them seemed to be. "Man, you two are cool under pressure," he remarked.

The Keeper responded with a faint nod and said, "Brent. Keeper."

"I remember," Riley told him. "Good game yesterday." Then he glanced at the Seeker. "I never caught your name."

"Harry."

"Well, Harry, I guess we'll see how good you _actually_ are, hmm?"

Harry smiled even though his insides were twisting up. He had only played Chaser a handful of times, and that too during practice with his Gryffindor team. He couldn't even remember how a Quaffle felt between his hands. He really hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself. He adjusted his gloves and dug his feet into the bipod to expel some of his nervous energy.

"Just remember to pass, alright?" Riley advised them. "There's nothing that confuses a Keeper more than a disappearing Quaffle."

The first game of the day started off after a shrill whistle from the coach. Riley, ever the aggressor, was the first to get at the Quaffle with a triumphant hoot. He easily evaded the red Chasers and zoomed towards the north hoops, scoring ten points before the other players could figure out what had happened.

"PICK UP THE SPEED," Brock shouted from below. That prompted everyone else to get into position just as the red Keeper threw the Quaffle back to his team.

Riley flew past his teammates, cheekily commenting, "Try and keep up, will you?"

In most team sports, versatility was incredibly important. A player needs to be able to both attack and defend as the situation calls for it. However, in Quidditch, this was not the case. Each player is highly specialized and has perfected their role over years of training. So being asked to suddenly switch positions made many of them stumble and falter through this match. Brock had expected to see stumbles, especially when Seekers were suddenly made Beaters or Keepers had to now chase after the Quaffle. He wanted to see how each person adapted to their new situation.

Right off the bat, one man stood out. West Lee, the Chaser who had played quite well the day before, was taking to Beating like a fish to water. His accuracy was incredible and, while he lacked immensely in power and tired easily after a good whack, he had a good eye for judging the Bludger's path. Being a Chaser by trade, he knew to look out for those bloody awful balls of doom. He seemed to take pleasure in bashing the hell out of them for once.

Harry ducked as a Bludger flew past his head. That had been a little too close for comfort. He whipped around to bark at West who wasn't even trying to hide his elation. "I'm on your team!"

"Sorry, sorry," West laughed while spinning the bat in his hand. "I knew you'd duck."

Before Harry could retort, Riley directed a whistle at him. "Move it." The Quaffle was under his arm and he was weaving random patterns as he zoomed by the two squabbling men. Harry took off after him, quickly blocking the red Chasers from getting at the Quaffle that was quickly making its was towards the hoops.

Parker Topton was the Keeper for the red team. He had already let through four Quaffles, which meant forty points for the black team. He was a Chaser in reality and was getting rather frustrated by this goalkeeper position. His usual pinched expression turned sourer when he saw Riley hurtling towards him. He floated a few meters in front of the three hoops, arms outstretched and ready to fly to either corner at the slightest sign.

Riley faked a throw to the left, then another one to the right. That threw Parker off, sending him flying to the left before he could stop himself. It was an easy throw for the Chaser now since two of the three hoops were left unchecked. He didn't even slow down as he lobbed the Quaffle in for another ten points. Parker let out a loud swear, which was uncharacteristic of him. He really wasn't cut out to be a Keeper.

The Seekers were having a bad time as well. It was one thing to actually _find_ the Snitch. It was another thing entirely to grab at it. Tammy Warshaw, a Keeper, was the Seeker for the black team and Hank Prow, a Beater, played for the red team. If possible, the heavyset man looked even more irate than usual. He had to squint to see past the players since he was so used to Bludgers that blundered towards him. He had let the Tammy get past him twice. Then he had threatened to punch the living daylights out of her next time she chased after the Snitch. Hector had had to intervene at that point.

Harry hadn't even tried to get his hands on the Quaffle. He was fine with defending Brent and Riley by blocking the other players from getting close to them. Those two men were rather good at Chasing considering their original positions. Perhaps being fellow Keepers, they could work out what to do without talking much. They passed often, used shields effectively, and were quick to employ defensive maneuvers when required. By the end of a half-hour, the score was seventy-forty for the black team.

Then Brock called for a switch in players and positions.

Four matches were played this way, each lasting half-hour each. Each player got to play at least three times so that they could try out all positions. Many failed miserably, but a few did shine over the course of the exercise. Mallory, the Chaser from the day before, had a good eye for Keeping. If she were a bit taller and quicker, she could have made a decent Keeper. Brent had shocked everyone by how versatile he could be. He didn't let up easily and evidently enjoyed playing the matches despite the position. He wasn't great at any one aspect of the game, but he was good at all of them. Brock was quick to make a note of that. Harry played a fair Beater himself except for the fact that he always hesitated before beating the Bludger into a player.

By the time the players touched the ground again, they were tired as all hell. It was also past lunchtime. So Brock called it a day, postponing the more technical exercises for the third practice.

Harry was sitting on the grass and stretching his legs out when Riley approached him. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand and saying, "Tough day."

Riley thought so. He collected the pylons nearby and set them by the other equipment before plopping down on the wooden bench. "Bloody hot too." He wiped the sweat off his neck. "Didn't get hit by a Bludger today, did you?"

Harry guffawed and shook his head. "No one needed saving."

"So, what other teams have you played for?" Riley asked conversationally.

"I haven't played in the league before. Just school."

"Really?" He was surprised. "You wouldn't think that. When did you graduate?"

Harry didn't say anything at first. He gripped his shoe with his hand and pulled his toes towards his shin, feeling his calf relax from the cramped position it had been in for hours. How long had it been? Seemed like a lifetime ago. He hadn't played Quidditch since Sixth Year. "About fifteen years?" he finally said with a weak shrug.

Riley's jaw dropped. "F-fifteen years? You played _fifteen years ago_? Holy crap!" He bent down to peer at Harry's face.

Brock had been watching and cringing at the whole conversation, figuring that now would be a good time to intervene. He pressed a hand to Riley's shoulder, silently making him back off. "Good game today," he told Harry. "I just need to borrow Riley for a second."

"Of course."

The moment they were out of earshot, Riley whipped towards Brock with a fierce scowl. "What's going on here?" he hissed. "Who is he? He hasn't played Quidditch in _ages_!"

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Brock held his hands out in appeasement. "I told you he was a secret weapon, didn't I? Don't worry about it. He just wants to tryout in peace. Once everything is done, I'll explain. Will you leave him alone until then?"

"No _way_ am I going to do that! Tell me!"

Brock shrugged weakly.

Riley blew out a gush of air from his nose and planted his hands on his hips. "Man, no one tells me anything." Then he stormed off to help Hector with the rest of the pylons.

That evening, Brock was back at his kitchen table with Charlotte, leafing through the notes he had taken over the course of two days. He was allowed as many players as budget allowed him. Unfortunately, due to the poor performance of Puddlemere United over the past four decades, that budget had dwindled to almost the bare minimum. That meant he had money for about ten players.

"Riley and Hector take two spots," Charlotte jotted down on a piece of parchment. "So we have one Keeper and one Beater. Then Harry Potter makes three."

"Mallory," Brock murmured. "Fresh eyes. She's not very flexible regarding the positions she can play, but she's a damn good Chaser. Not too pricey."

Charlotte wrote down the second Chaser's name. "Alright. Beater?"

"Hank Prow."

"I told you so."

"Yeah, yeah." Brock lobbed a balled up parchment at his wife's gloating face. "So we have all the Beaters." He then looked through the files. "I really like Topton and Lee. Quick Chasers, not looking for any fights. They work very well with a team. And this Brent Quibley… Got to keep an eye on him. Maybe as a substitute?"

"This budget is going to kill us, huh?"

Meanwhile, Harry was laid up on the couch nursing his sore joints and cramped muscles. Every small movement he made was accompanied with a quiet moan of dismay as his body argued with him for all that vigorous workout it had had to endure over a short span of two days. He was just about to fall asleep when the doorbell rang, much to his chagrin. It took him a good while to sit up and then a little bit longer to actually stand up. Once he was able to move his limbs, he shuffled over to the front door, opening the door to his best friends who were staring at him expectantly. "Well?" Ron and Hermione asked in unison.

"I'm dying," Harry bemoaned. "I'm way too old for this…"

"Pfft," Ron scoffed as he barged into the house. He was carrying a casserole dish from dinner that evening. Hermione had a couple containers in her arms as well. The couple walked through the dark house to the kitchen, placing the warm food on the countertop. Then they turned to Harry again. "Tell us."

"There's nothing to tell," Harry grumbled. He opened the glass dish, smiling faintly when he smelt the delicious stir-fry. "Thanks, guys."

"Figured you weren't in much of a mood to cook," Hermione beamed. "You're having fun, aren't you? I can tell."

"Hmm." He didn't elaborate. He pulled cutlery out of the cupboard instead.

Ron sat on the counter and extended a hand for a plate and fork. "Bet Riley Varus is a hoot, eh?" He spooned some food onto the plate and set about attacking it despite having eaten less than an hour ago. He didn't pay any heed to Hermione's disappointed head shaking. He was more interested in Harry's Quidditch stories. "Is he the same as he is in interviews?"

"The same," Harry told him. "Very honest. He doesn't take things too seriously. He's really good…"

"And how's Lightmead?"

"Fine." After going through rigorous training at the Ministry, Coach Lightmead was a piece of cake to handle. There was no yelling or demeaning in Quidditch. It was a player-friendly sport, after all. Harry could handle Brock with no problems at all. "Nice man. Takes care of his players."

"So?" Hermione drew out pointedly. "How did you do?"

Harry wasn't one to toot his own horn, so he just smiled modestly and that was enough to get Ron excited. "I knew it!" the redhead crowed. "You better turn this team around, Harry. I'll be _very_ disappointed if you don't."

"They haven't announced the team yet. Don't get too ahead of yourself."

Back at his home, Riley was lounging on the sofa with his well-read copy of the Quidditch Weekly. That long soak in the tub after the tryout had helped his body calm down. He knew he had to take it easy, so he was planning on staying home. However, he had no company over, which meant he was done his magazine in an hour. "Hmm," he sighed when he finished his cold draught of beer and set the mug on the table. As he slid his hand over the sofa cushion beside him absently, he remembered Jessica the surgeon. He smiled to himself. Interesting woman.

He looked up and towards the kitchen, asking, "Can I get a copy of the Prophet?"

His house-elf appeared almost at once with the paper. Riley grabbed a handful of crisps before settling down on the couch again, the Daily Prophet in hand.

"Oh…"

He froze with a chip near his mouth and his jaw open.

"No way…"

He scrambled to sit up and practically threw the crisps back in the bowl before hurrying to unfold the newspaper over the coffee table.

"Oh. No _fucking_ way," he breathed in amazement.


	4. The Reveal

**4.**

"Nice scar."

Harry instinctively lifted a hand to his forehead to ruffle his hair and then glanced up.

Riley gestured absently at the back of his hand, prompting him to look. "Where did you get that one from?"

It was the one that Dolores Umbridge's wonderful detentions had done. The writing was barely noticeable. '_I must not tell lies_'. After getting all that sun the past few days, his skin had tanned so much so that the scar stood out more than usual. He unconsciously tried to brush the words off before reaching for his glove to hide it. He was always hiding his scars.

Riley crouched down and, before he could don the glove, took hold of his wrist to examine the odd marks. "Wow… Morbid." He flicked his eyes up. "What did you do that for?"

Harry yanked his hand out of Riley's grip and jerked his glove on.

The young Keeper tilted his head, puzzled. "You're Harry Potter, aren't you?" he asked quietly. He wasn't met with an answer. "Where did you get that scar from?" he wanted to know. There were a lot of things he wanted to know, but he supposed he could start there and work his way up. "Was it a long time ago?"

Fortunately for Harry, the coach blew his whistle at that moment.

They had their first injury during their second match. One of the Beaters had caught a Bludger wrong and managed to dislocate a shoulder. An injury of that caliber meant he could be out of play for at least two weeks. It also meant that he might not be able to train in time for the Puddelmere United's first game. As he was carted away by Hector, the other players felt some pressure mounting. The past two days had been fun and all, but a single injury could keep them out of the season. With that thought in the back of their mind, they went back to playing.

Brock was pushing their limits with his quick instructions. After the game, they were running drills with each player being asked to perform a certain skill at random. For example, the Keepers were made to do rapid successions of Double Eight Loops and the Chasers had to perform the Porskoff Ploy. The Seekers chased after Snitches that ran pre-planned routes while the Beaters practiced their swings against Bludgers that bounced back at them.

Harry was quickly getting used to the Snitch, each capture bringing back more and more memories of Quidditch matches at Hogwarts. He was superior to the other two Seekers who were trying out because of his experienced flying technique, but he was still unsure about how he would do against the top Seekers in the world. As Hermione would tell him, it's all about practice. Or, as Ron would tell him, 'you are dead to me if you don't make it to the playoffs'.

Throughout the practice, he could feel Riley keeping a close eye on him and that made him nervous. The man's usual cheery disposition had faded considerably during their morning interaction. In fact, he hadn't even smiled once. That couldn't be a good sign. Did he think this wasn't a good idea? Was he simply unimpressed? Or was he pissed off?

After three hours in the air, Brock sounded his whistle to stop the drills for a break. Everyone touched down on the grass to grab a drink of water. Harry skirted confrontation by keeping his head down and moving to his duffle bag by the benches. But his slinking didn't go unnoticed for long.

"Well?" Riley asked as though the past few hours of practice hadn't happened at all. He heard a quiet sigh from the sweaty Seeker who was pulling a water bottle out of the bag. "Aren't you going to tell me? I've got all day, you know?" To prove his point, he sat down on the bench and folded his arms against his chest.

"Look, it's not worth talking about," Harry finally said in defeat.

"Let's see."

"No."

Riley frowned. "Are you always this mysterious?"

"Yes."

He then glanced at the group lounging in the sun just a few meters away. "Shall I tell them?" He waited for an answer even though he knew he was wasting his time. After a long pause, he looked at Harry again. "No?"

Harry had been watching the other players as well. Over the past two days he hadn't spoken with any of them except during games. He was trying so hard to keep a low profile that he couldn't even remember half of their names. "Does it matter who I am?" he murmured.

"Of course it matters."

He flicked his eyes to the right at Riley who was smiling kindly. "I'm just a guy, you know," he tried to reason out. "You wouldn't look twice at me on the street."

"But we aren't on the street, are we?" Riley countered. "We're on the field and if they knew who they were playing with, I have a feeling they would play a _lot_ differently, especially the other Seekers who are up against you." He kicked some grass with his shoe. "Why did you choose this team?"

Harry wasn't sure if he would like the reason. "Obscurity."

"Ouch. That stings."

"Sorry."

Riley laughed it off. "But you're serious, aren't you?" he went on to say. "You honestly want to play, don't you?"

"… Yeah."

"Okay. I respect that." He nodded once. "You seem to enjoy playing. How come you never tried out earlier?"

Harry took another swig from his bottle before saying, "It was sort of expected that I join the Ministry afterwards." Then he paused. "That came out wrong… Um… I wanted to be an Auror at that point in my life."

"This is a mid-life crisis?"

He managed a dry smirk. "Sounds about right."

Riley was liking Harry Potter more and more with each passing remark. "So… Shall I tell them?" he asked again.

Harry hesitated.

He hesitated for a moment too long.

"WHOA, ISN'T THAT HARRY POTTER!?"

There was sudden silence on the pitch.

Brock slapped a hand to his face in defeat.

Riley grinned wide as he pointed accusingly at the mortified man in front of him.

The shock only lasted a few seconds.

"Not like he's wearing a disguise or anything," Hank the Beater drawled. He returned to stretching almost immediately, as though nothing was amiss. He did manage to elicit surprised mumbles and exclamations from the rest of the players as they started to realize that they had been in the presence of a celebrity for two days without realizing it.

"Oh my God, I nearly killed you yesterday!" West started in horror. "Shit…"

"I _knew_ it," a few of them mumbled under their breath. A handful of them didn't believe it, their brows bunching up as they scrutinized the flushed Seeker who was now crouching by his duffle bag and pretending to sort the gear.

Since the end of the war, the name 'Harry Potter' invoked a sense of pride in wizards and witches. He had captured everyone's heart with his heroics, dedication, and modesty. He did not exude power, yet he was placed on a pedestal by children who had grown up hearing the fantastical tale of this young boy who had saved the world from certain evil. His life was never public, yet his past was printed in half the books that were in circulation in the Wizarding World. Even after giving up a better part of his childhood to defeat Lord Voldemort, he had continued for years to clean up the mess left behind by the battle. He was a good man.

The players had every right to feel bewildered and self-conscious.

He was untouchable. An idol.

To see such a man among common folk was almost unheard of.

"How about a speech?" Riley egged on.

"Shut up," Harry muttered under his breath.

_A few hours later…_

"How far are you willing to go?"

The players looked down at the long table. Rows of shot glasses were sitting there, unclaimed and filled with various concoctions. They also glanced at each other, wondering what they were supposed to do. Riley, sensing their confusion, reached forward and separated five glasses, pulling them towards him. Then he arched a brow, challenging them. Before long, all of the worn-out players had sectioned out their share of alcohol. Riley was buying, after all. No point in being stingy. Besides, they seemed to be celebrating that night. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity to grab a drink with the Boy-Who-Lived.

Now Harry wasn't much of a drinker, especially not in public settings like this loud pub they were in. He slouched in his seat despite already being in a private booth with the team and tousled his hair to make sure his scar was still hidden.

Nothing got past Riley.

"Hey," he said over the din and jerked his thumb at the Seeker. Harry glared at him while pursing his lips just as numerous pairs of eyes swiveled at him. "It's not often we have a celebrity in our midst! Let's play a game." He reached across the table and pushed one of the unclaimed shots firmly forward. "Have you ever killed anyone, Mr. Potter?"

His surprise showed plainly. There was a pregnant pause. Only a moment later did he realize that he was actually expected to answer that. "Of course not," he exclaimed.

"Alright." Riley held his hands up as though to quiet people down even though no one was talking but him. Everyone in the booth was still very, very fascinated by everything that had happened. "If the answer is yes, you take a shot."

"Just me?"

"You and anyone else who feels like joining in." He then made a show of thinking. A moment later he snapped his fingers and a bright smile appeared on his face. "Here's one. Did you get fired?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "No."

"Are you trying to get your name in the papers?"

"No."

"Oh, I know. You're working undercover, aren't you?"

"No."

"Are you getting offered a crazy salary?"

"… No."

"Girl trouble?"

Harry massaged his temple. Why had he agreed to come here?

"_Boy_ trouble?"

"No, Riley," he answered patiently. "As hard as it might be for you to imagine, my life is as normal as yours, alright?"

Riley guffawed. "My life is _far_ from normal. Anyway, I just hope you don't simply grow out of this phase. That would be embarrassing. And I hope you don't think that you're a sure thing. You're pretty cool and all, but that doesn't mean you just get a free pass into this team, alright? I don't know how things work back at the Ministry, but that sure as hell isn't how-"

Harry snatched the shot glass up and downed its contents in one gulp. Midlife crisis. Sure. Why not? The alcohol burned at it went down, heating up his stomach. He swallowed his second shot without flinching. Heat rushed to his head. Before he knew it, he had finished a third one.

That hit the spot.

"Hmm." His vision doubled. With a quiet mumble he laid his head on the table and hid behind his arms.

This all happened over the span of thirty seconds.

"I guess we're starting," Riley cheered before taking his first shot.

"Oh my goodness…" Mallory rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"No," he slurred.

"He really is doing it, isn't he?" Brent said wondrously. "How the hell did we not recognize you?"

Hank took his first shot like it was water. "Surprised you even have to try out," he said gruffly.

"I thought you were an Auror," Mallory continued on. She leaned over closer to the table to try and peer at the Golden Boy's face. "Aren't you an Auror?"

"No," came the muffled reply.

After some unsuccessful tries to get him to sit up, the players decided to let him be and, instead, talk about him 'behind his back'. Plenty of stories were exchanged, myths they had heard and articles they had read in the papers about the ex-Auror's prowess. They also began dissecting his flying style since it suddenly made sense. He must have caught many Dark Army soldiers with the same evasive maneuvers and unpredictable turns he used while chasing after a Snitch. The night suddenly turned into a Harry Potter admiration party. No one had ever said a bad word about him, not since the end of the war.

His cheeks were burning as an hour passed this way. If he listened to any more praises, he would start screaming.

He abruptly sat upright and struggled out from behind the table, mumbling, "Loo," before stumbling away. It took some searching before he found the bathroom. He weaved past other patrons to get to it, cringing the moment he stepped in and the rank smell hit him like a wave. He walked to the cracked porcelain sinks without glancing at the urinals. The less contact he had with people, the better. He washed his hands and face with cold water from the leaky tap.

Yes, he was terrified. What if he was making a huge mistake? What if he failed? What if he ended up making a fool of himself?

He was expected to be remarkable.

He gripped the edge of the sink and leaned against his arms tiredly. He wasn't thinking straight. He took a deep breath to calm his drowsy mind. Starting tomorrow, everyone will be talking about him – at his workplace, in the common household, on the news, and everywhere. He had to be prepared for that. He had known. But he had figured that he would have more time to do some damage control. This evening was just a taste of things to come. If he couldn't handle a handful of people talking about him, how was he supposed to play a game that was fueled by public support?

This wouldn't do.

He stood up straight and wiped his face with his shoulders. Ron would be slapping some sense into him right now. To try out for an international Quidditch team was not an impulsive decision. He had weighed the pros and cons for ages. He didn't just up and leave his Auror team to fend for themselves. He had trained a good replacement himself. He had to stand by his choices, especially now.

Feeling very drunk and resolute, he managed to get out of bathroom with his dignity intact.

Only to be met with Riley on the other side.

"Oh," he said lamely as he bumped into the Keeper. "Sorry."

"Alright?" Riley asked while tugging Harry to the side, away from the doorway and towards a quieter corner of the pub. "Were you embarrassed?"

"I'm just not… I'm not used to… all this." Harry waved his hand vaguely. "I don't know. Sorry. I'm not very good company today."

"You have to get used to it now," Riley advised him. "You know that, right? If you're going to be a part of the league, you need to learn to be okay with people talking about you and taking pictures, wanting autographs, all that."

"I know."

"I've grown up living this way, so it comes naturally. My mum and dad were always gracious and good with fans. I hope you can be that way too."

"I'll try…"

"And just relax, yeah?" Riley added. "You're so guarded. I've noticed. But you do loosen up when you're playing. I've noticed that too. I know you enjoy flying. Even if you can't handle all this publicity, just hold onto that feeling. It'll be fine. You'll do great."

"Thanks."

"Besides," he pressed his finger to Harry's chest, "I'm sure you're used to the celebrity status." He trailed his finger down.

Harry stepped back uncertainly…

… just as Riley was jerked away by the back of his shirt. His arms windmilled and he ended up bumping into Big Heck. "What the-"

"Shut up," Hector growled. Then he looked at Harry. "Sorry about him," he muttered. "He's drunk."

"Er, um, it-it's okay."

"I'm not drunk!" Riley argued. "Let me go, you brute." He tried wriggling out of Hector's grasp.

Harry took that opportunity to slip away feeling very, very sober. He sat back down at the booth. That was the weirdest thing that had happened to him in a long time. Strange guy.


	5. Scouting

**5.**

**GOLDEN BOY TO STEAL THE GOLDEN SNITCH **

**POTTER QUITS THE MINISTRY FOR THE LEAGUE**

**SECOND LIFE OF THE BOY-WHO-LIVED**

When the candidates reconvened on Monday, they were shown to a large locker room where they could start stowing their Quidditch things. With much fanfare, the room was soon filled with players grateful to have a cold space to recover in instead of spending the entire day outside in the beating heat. The room had been charmed to fit all twenty-two of them. The lockers were tall and grey, standing against plain white walls. There were showers and other amenities that were separated by a wall of washbasins off to one side of the room. The floors were yellow, tiles gleaming in the white light that shone across the space. "Not shabby at all," West noted.

Harry was unloading his gear when he heard, "You're pretty stacked," followed by a slim hand wrapping around his bicep. He jerked in fright and turned around, nearly falling into his brand new locker as he tripped upon seeing Riley standing in front of him. The man was holding a cup of coffee and appeared as chipper as ever. Harry shook him off, but he was persistent. He skimmed his hand over the Seeker's torso, eliciting a sharp yelp in response. "Do you work out a lot?" he asked. "Probably from all that Auror training, huh?"

The fact that the two of them weren't alone in the locker room didn't faze him at all. But the other players weren't so blasé. Mallory mumbled, "What are you talking about?"

"Jealous?" Riley finally let go of Harry and looked over at her to gloat. "I copped a feel."

Harry hung his head in defeat.

But Riley wasn't done. "Maybe we should follow his schedule, you know?" he figured as he walked over to his locker and started putting his stuff away. "He probably had a strict workout thing going on at the Ministry."

"Copped a feel?" Parker and West echoed.

"Sexual assault," Harry bit out.

Riley laughed happily. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" He waved them down. "Oh, and just so all of you know, he's not into guys. You have a shot though, ladies." He was hit in the head with a tin of wax for that comment. "Ow." He picked up the container off the floor. "What? Got a girlfriend?"

Harry hadn't been in this sort of a juvenile situation in ages. He caught the tin that was thrown back at him. This was like being back at Hogwarts, getting teased by the Weasley twins. "Grow up," he sighed and rolled his eyes.

He had to admit that it did feel quite nice to act juvenile after so long.

Meanwhile, Brock was marveling his sparkling office. In all his years as a coach, he had never had such a room. Overlooking the Quidditch pitch, the office was above the locker room. It was spacious and empty for the moment. He stood by the large windows, looking down. How things changed in a short span of twenty-four hours…

He had been called to an emergency meeting at the British and Irish Quidditch League on Sunday at seven. He hadn't even been awake when the call came in. So he was incredibly surprised when he found himself in a conference with the director and a three of his underlings.

"Ah, Mr. Lightmead," the bloated and balding man with a cheery beam said enthusiastically from his seat behind the long table. This was the director of the British Quidditch sector, Stuart Tynee. Back in his day, he was quite the sensation as both a player and a coach. Now retired, he stuck with his passion and rode his way to the top of the league, which was where Brock found him that morning. "Please, have a seat," he bolstered while waving a meaty hand at the lone chair in the middle of the heavily decorated room. Brock was too confused to be nervous as he perched down. "Sorry to call you in so early. I hope we didn't disturb your beauty sleep." Then, without waiting for a response, Tynee chortled. His double chin jiggled in time with his stomach. By the looks of it, he had let himself go as soon as he had found himself behind a desk. "But onto business." He casually gestured to his right. One of his dour-faced lackeys handed him a crisply folded Daily Prophet. "Harry Potter has been trying out, has he?" The director's words were light, but his stare was more intense, causing Brock to shift in his seat. "Why wasn't I made aware of this?" Tynee now waited for a response.

"Um… He… He didn't want any publicity," Brock attempted to explain. "He said he wanted a fair chance."

"And have you been giving him that fair chance?"

"I'm trying."

"Good, good," Tynee said absently. He scratched his pink chins while examining the article in the papers. "Has he mentioned why he chose to play for Puddlemere United?"

"No, sir."

"Then he hasn't been approached by other teams?"

Brock paused. "Oh." He hadn't thought about that. "Uh, he… Not yet. I don't know. He hasn't said anything." He didn't want to give Harry Potter away. This was his chance to make something out of this team. "He wants to play for _my_ team," he insisted after a beat. "He was adamant."

"Hmm." The director sniffed and pushed the Prophet aside. "Then shall we talk budget, Mr. Lightmead?"

Brock frowned. "Pardon me?"

"Well, you can't possibly be thinking of giving Harry Potter the same salary as the other players…"

"But the tryouts aren't over yet."

Tynee lifted a brow and smiled dryly. "Am I to believe you are _not_ going to put Harry Potter on your team, Brock?"

All that had happened twenty-four hours ago. Now Puddlemere United suddenly had a brand new locker room and Coach Lightmead had a brand new office.

He clicked his heels in excitement. This was beyond incredible.

Harry had been dreading the inevitable brush with public. So he was pleasantly surprised when the Quidditch field was devoid of people when the players walked on. Riley said, "Sports reporters aren't allowed in until tryouts are over, so don't worry about that. Just worry about the scouts."

"Huh?" Harry gulped.

"If you ever decide to play for the Falcons, just know that I will put something awful in your coffee, okay?" The Keeper smiled bright before jogging out towards his coach. The players who had heard shared some chuckles at Harry's expense.

Sure enough, an hour into practice, a few men dressed in dapper suits and wearing sleek sunglasses wandered towards the sidelines, heads tilted upwards and hands in their pockets as they watched the potential Puddlemere United candidates. One in particular, of course.

"What did I tell you," Riley remarked as he zoomed by Harry who had been eyeing the men.

Brock wanted nothing more than to tell the scouts off, but he knew this wasn't against the rules. While tryout season was still in session, it wasn't uncommon to see team agents at practices. Often offers would be made to players they deemed 'worthy'. And often these offers were quite good. The only thought that kept Brock from losing his wits was that Harry wouldn't be easily swayed by offers. But he had to admit that there were many teams out there that would be better suited for the ex-Auror – strong teams with a better chance at the world cup. Harry would definitely grow in a team like Tornados or Arrows that were offensively capable. Brock wasn't about to go down without a fight though. He would do everything he could to make Harry stay on his team.

As he passed by the scouts in as nonchalant a manner as he could muster, he heard few passing comments.

"Strange flying style."  
"Hmm, yes. Natural."  
"Firebolt?"  
"Quite an older model."  
"Coach wants him at all costs."  
"Money won't be much of a leverage."

Brock shook of his thoughts. He shouldn't be focusing on just one player. A team needed at least seven.

After the first two games, Harry had to sit out to let the other Seekers play. He approached the benches with a few other players. No sooner had he knelt down to retrieve his water bottle than two men walked up to him, prompting him to look up.

"Mr. Potter," the scouts from Chudley Cannons said in unison.

"Hello," Harry answered politely as he got up.

"It's an honor, sir."

"Ah, let's not go through the formalities," he hurried to say.

The men smiled and nodded in concession. "You have a very unique technique, Mr. Potter. Former law enforcement has never played for a Quidditch team before."

"I know… I'm taking advantage of that fact."

"If you are available this evening, perhaps we could have a chat about your future in the league?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly while swishing the water in his bottle without really realizing it. "Um, actually… maybe you should talk to my agent," he hesitated.

The men appeared surprised.

"I can pass on your business cards… if you have some handy…"

"Uh, s-sure." They patted their pockets a few times before procuring a small card. "We look forward to your call, Mr. Potter."

As soon as they were out of earshot, Riley sidled up to Harry. "Why, Mr. Potter," he gushed. "An _agent?_ Look at you."

Over the course of the practice, he had managed to gather six cards. He was about to hand the dirty work off and he was more than delighted to do so. Muted taunting from the other players weren't appreciated. He frowned at them. He supposed he should be glad that they were becoming more comfortable with him, at least. The games ran all the way past lunch and into two in the afternoon.

After a quick shower in the locker room, he hurried to pack up and get out of there. He didn't want to hold onto those business cards for longer than he had to. He said a quick round of goodbyes before throwing his duffle bag over his shoulder and walking out of the building. He was still getting used to the hours of flying. His legs and back killed with every slight movement. Fortunately he didn't notice when he played a game. Adrenaline usually kept him on his toes.

Hermione kept bugging him about eating healthy too. He knew that she had a valid point. If he were expected to keep up with players who were much younger than him, he would have to shape up, starting with his stamina. Oh, how he would miss crisps and grease. He pulled an apple out of his bag, wrinkling his nose at it. This better be worth it. He disapparated once he had reached the outer gate.

He apparated into a heavily wooded area. He had been there often enough to forgo glancing at the signage. He took the fork to the right and walked through the cool forest. Shade was much welcome after being out in the sun for six hours. He picked his way through the protruding roots. He didn't have to walk long before he heard familiar shouts, indicating that he was getting close to the clearing. One small turn later, he found himself in a large green field, back out in the sun once again. He hung back by the shade though, walking around the perimeter of the Quidditch pitch. Drills were being run above him, each loud shout followed by players zooming from one corner of the ground to the next. They seemed to be practicing their braking. Braking was just as important as speed when it came to a game. A Snitch caught out of bounds was worthless. A Quaffle passed outside the boundary led to a loss of possession. Harry watched the ladies in matching green sweats work on their sprints and stops, sitting on the grass by the water bottles and snacks. His apple wasn't that great after all.

Once his neck started to cramp up, he tilted his head down and fished the cards out of his pocket. Shuffling through them, he noted the teams that were interested in him. Aside from the Cannons, the Tornados, Wasps, Magpies, Arrows, and Bats had an eye on him. Good teams. He sort of wondered what kind of perks they would offer him. Just curiosity. Puddlemere United hadn't really said anything yet. If he weren't so hardheaded, he wondered if he would accept another team's proposal. He wouldn't mind playing for the Tornados or the Bats. Both teams had very exciting players, both flexible and fearless.

But after hearing Ron's multitude of speeches over the past few months, he wanted to be a part of the crusade for the International Quidditch Cup, and he wanted to get there with the Puddlemere United. Call him sentimental. That team had been winning the cup for many years when he was young. At its prime, PU had been quite a big deal. He wanted to return the team to its former glory. And he knew he could do it. He was a pretty big deal himself, wasn't he?

"Hey, good lookin'."

He looked up with a wary smile. "Long time," he answered Veronica Gibble, Keeper for the Holyhead Harpies.

"What's this I hear?" the pretty bruntette hummed while wiggling her shapely brows and hovering on her broom a few feet above the ground. "Finally decided to give Quidditch a go?" When he shrugged, she laughed and shook her head in defeat. "Man, you sure know how to surprise a girl." She touched down lightly. "So… Puddlemere United?"

"Yeah…"

"How's the team looking this year?"

Harry couldn't tell, so he shrugged again.

Veronica winked. "Bet you're a sure thing, eh?"

He nodded after a beat. "One way or another, yeah," he figured.

"It's going to be a blast playing against you."

"Oh, I'm just a Seeker."

She laughed. "_Just_ a Seeker? You never give yourself enough credit."

Harry waved her off. "You know that's not what I-"

The two of them started when a shrill voice from above exclaimed, "YOU SAID A WATER BREAK, GIBBLE! GET GOING!"

"Oops." Veronica hurried to grab a bottle off the ground. "Is she coming over here?" she whispered at Harry.

"Oh yeah," he said with an apologetic smirk.

Sure enough, a streak of green rushed in, jerking to a halt right behind the blonde Keeper. "How many damned water breaks do you need, Gibble?" Ginny blustered. She smacked the younger woman over the head.

"But look who's here," Veronica whined while pointing at Harry who was still seated on the grass.

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him as though it was somehow his fault that her player kept breaking drills ever fifteen minutes. Harry raised his hands in surrender, saying, "I didn't do anything. Don't look at me like that."

"See? I'm gone already," Veronica added before mounting her broom and flying off. She couldn't handle another earful.

Ginny huffed at Harry. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" He was affronted. "I'm not allowed to come over anymore?"

"Not if you're being distracting."

"I wasn't even _doing_ anything. I was just _sitting_ here."

"Oh yeah?" She then pointed up, prompting him to look.

The gaggle of girls quickly dispersed, trying to look as though they hadn't been staring for the past two minutes.

Harry sighed. "That's not my fault," he maintained. Then he held up the business cards. "Here."

"What's this?" She took it from him and looked through them. "Oh? Scouts?"

"Can you talk to them?"

She sputtered. "_Me_? _Why_?"

"Because you said you'd be my agent."

"When did I say _that_?"

"That one time," Harry said vaguely. "Remember?"

"No."

"When you got onto the team… That night. Remember now?"

Ginny widened her eyes for dramatic effect. "Oh, come on, Harry…"

"You remember, right?"

"_Ten years ago_?"

"… Yeah."

"When we got drunk _a decade ago_?"

"Now you're just being pedantic."

"Unbelievable."

Harry pressed his hands together and smiled angelically at her. "_Please_, Ginny? I will return the favor. I _swear_."

Ginny scowled. "Why can't _you_ just say no?" she demanded to know.

"Because."

"That's not an answer."

"I don't like saying no."

"You idiot."

"So you'll call them up?"

"Stupid." She then zoomed off without another word. She did pocket the cards though. Harry smiled after her. He could always count on Ginny as long as he was willing to stand the name-calling.


	6. The Last Straw

**6.**

Over the next few practices, Brock started weeding out the candidates, starting with the weakest Beaters and Keepers. Come Thursday, what used to be twenty-two players was down to sixteen. Now more manageable, practices catered to the remaining players. It wasn't long before the two other Seekers who were trying out realized that their chances of getting into the team were slim at best.

"He's too good," Angelo panted at the end of one of their games. He was stretched out on the grass, staring up at the cloudless sky. "Man, this sucks." He had yet to win a match against Harry. "It's like I'm always _just_ behind him, you know? How is he so fast?"

"Beats me," Caleb groaned. "At least you can keep up with him. I can't even find the Snitch as fast as he can."

"Kind of scary how he just goes for it, huh? It's like he doesn't care if he barrels someone over."

After continuous days out in the field, the players had formed vague alliances and friendships, whether it be over technical skill training or physical conditioning. It was very important to strengthen ones body both before and after games to ensure that a wrong twist doesn't lead to a pulled back or sore arms. And even if a player is injured, they are required to play out the game in whatever condition they find themselves in. Quidditch wasn't for the faint of heart. So Brock had been pushing the candidates with exercises that worked their core, balance, and endurance. If nothing else, he wanted his team to be tireless. As long as steady power was available, he could help them mold their game according to the team they were playing against. His players need to learn to conserve their energy and then let it burst out of them when the time called for it. He wanted a team that could understand all aspects of the game so that their timing was just perfect.

His team was nowhere to be seen at that moment…

"Ah," Mallory gasped when Brock pressed down on her bruised temple where her fellow Chaser had whacked her with an errant elbow. He clicked his tongue at her, prompting her to sit still.

"Forward, right, _then_ back," Riley harrumphed for the umpteenth time in the past three minutes. "Are you deaf or something, Fink?"

"No," Mallory murmured.

"And you," he continued on after turning in a blink of an eye towards the offender, Rita. "Forward, _right_, then back. For God's sakes, _it's_ _not that hard_!" Rita nodded meekly at him, prompting another harrumph.

Hector was having his own trouble from where he was at in the air with the rest of the Beaters. This position required almost as much coordination as Chasing. The two Beaters need to work together to both avoid the Bludgers as well as target the right player on the field. This meant having great aim and good communication. Unfortunately, Beaters have _never_ been known for having great discussions. This was the third fight Big Heck had to break up. Despite his size, he did not think much of confrontation. So while he could pull two Beaters apart without breaking a sweat, he wasn't very good at making them _stay_ apart.

And that's how a bat was flung across the field and landed square at poor Parker's hip. The young Chaser hadn't been doing anything at all. One second he was drinking water, and the next second he was stumbling to the ground. He was too shocked to make a sound.

Not that he _had_ to say a word.

"OI!" Brock yelled. Mallory clapped her hands to her ears while those who weren't helping Parker out jumped a foot in the air. "GET DOWN HERE! NOW!" He got up and stomped off to the side with his arms folded against his chest firmly. The Beaters flew down in a sheepish line and stood in front of the fuming coach. He exhaled loudly in frustration. "What the hell was that?" he barked. "Hector?"

Hector was at a loss. He hadn't even seen one of his players fling his bat down in anger. He didn't know what had happened. He simply shrugged.

While the veteran had been oblivious, Hank was more than fed up with the childish games his fellow Beaters played. "These two can't keep it together," he said gruffly while jerking his thumb at the guilty party who were glaring murderously at him.

"Wow," West commented from the bench. "Way to rat 'em out, man."

"Shut up," Hank and Brock snapped at the loud-mouthed Chaser who should honestly be minding his own business if he knew what was good for him.

"I'm okay," Parker added to the 'discussion'. He too earned an abrupt snarl, making him purse his lips shut.

"This is _not_ a joke," the coach lectured heatedly. "I've seen _way_ too many incidents where these sort of tantrums have cost a limb. If you can't work together, then you may leave. Now. All of you need to understand that I am not at all obligated to pick a player who can't play fair. No matter how good you are," he glowered at the Beaters, "I can _always_ find a replacement. So decide now if you are going to take this seriously or not. I don't have time to waste putting you in your corners under timeouts. Grow the hell up."

The players appeared contrite, most of them staring at their feet and picking at loose threads on their gloves. Brock's speech was allowed to linger for a minute before he exhaled loudly again and said, "Take a break. Five minutes." He stormed off towards the locker rooms to cool his head. This was just the first of his many explosions that would come out during the next few months. He figured he should give the players some time to mull over things.

Mallory was nervously pushing at the skin around the goose egg on her forehead when a small white towel was thrust towards her. She looked up in confusion at Harry who was kneeling beside her. "For your head," he indicated. She hesitated for just a moment before accepting the damp and cold towel from him with a shy smile. "The swelling should go down in a little while," he assured her. "You don't feel funny, do you?"

"A little sad maybe," she joked.

He didn't seem to get it. "Ah, well. Um."

"I'm fine," she was quick to add. "Thank you."

Riley, in the meantime, had picked up where Brock had left off. "That was the most disrespectful thing I have ever seen," he exclaimed, his arms waving all about to accentuate his vexation. "You got Hector in trouble and wouldn't even speak up about it? You guys are unbelievable. Why can't you be more like Hank, huh? He follows orders to a tee. Do all of you need special instructions or something?" He scowled. "If something happens on the field, it's on Coach's head! So stop acting blind and start taking responsibility for your actions!"

"Riley," Harry interjected.

"What?" the young man said abruptly.

"I think they get it…"

Riley seethed and gritted his teeth. If there was one thing he despised, it was lack of discipline. "Whatever," he growled before grabbing his broom and flying off.

Harry returned his attention to Mallory who was sitting put with the towel pressed to her forehead. "Maybe you should sit out for a bit, hmm?" he advised her.

"He's sort of scary, isn't he?" she mumbled as she darted her eyes up to look at the Keeper zooming about.

Harry followed her gaze. "Oh?" He let out a short snort. "It's a bit tough to be scary when he keeps trying to cop a feel." Mallory laughed behind her hand appreciatively.

By the time Brock walked onto the field, all of the players were in the air, picking up where they had left off. He would be lying if he said he didn't feel a little happy about that. He knew guilt trips worked on everyone but his wife. He strolled along the sidelines. He had another two weeks to finalize his team. He had a fair idea on who to pick. He took a seat beside Mallory who was also watching from the sidelines. "Feeling alright?" he asked her.

"Mhm." She pulled the towel away from her head. "How does it look?" She tilted her head down so Brock could examine it.

"Looks alright."

"Yeah. Harry gave me this." She held up the towel. "It took away some of the heat."

Brock could smell some menthol on it and figured that Harry had put some anti-inflammatory potion in it. "Hmm. That's good." He motioned for her to press the towel against her head again. "So what do you think of him?" he went on to ask.

"Of Harry? He's pretty cool."

The coach couldn't help his smile. Everyone he spoke with had just that to say about Harry Potter. 'Pretty cool'. "I meant as a player," he clarified.

"Oh, of course." She blushed. "Um, he's really fast and sharp. He's great at avoiding the rest of the game when he's trying to catch the Snitch. He keeps out of the way. He's a good sport about winning. I don't really know how he is when he loses though. And I always see him giving tips to the other two Seekers."

"Calm under pressure?"

"Oh, definitely."

"So no flaws?"

She shrugged.

"Alright." To this day, Brock had yet to see a Quidditch player without a flaw. He had a good hunch as to what Harry Potter's could be. He kept his comments to himself, however.

Riley swooped towards Harry, coming to a smooth halt in front of him. "What's the big idea?" he frowned.

Harry wasn't sure, so he said, "I don't know."

Riley harrumphed. "Fine. I'll be bad cop if you want to do good cop," he grumbled.

"Uh…"

"But you've got to back me up once in a while, okay?"

"Um, okay."

"Say, were you almost a Head Auror?"

Harry shifted on his broom. "What's that got to do with anything?" he asked in turn.

"Well, _I'm_ usually the team captain," Riley said importantly. "But if you're around, I'll be shafted. You're a leader type, you know?"

Harry sighed. "Look, I'm not even on the team yet… And besides, I'm not looking to be the captain of anything."

"Then what?"

"I just want to win some games."

Riley beamed abruptly.

Harry was glad to see the change in the Keeper. This man had so many swinging moods that it was quite hard to keep up with them. "So we're all good?" he wanted to make sure.

"Of course." Riley thumped his back twice before taking off towards the goalposts again.

A few more drills later, Brock flew up toward them to start off a match. For the next hour, the players played quick successions of games, each lasting about twenty minutes each. The goal was to score as many points as possible. In contrast to the fiasco from earlier, everyone played quite well during the matches. There was no more trouble from the Beaters and the Chasers used their routes to the best of their abilities to evade the opposition. The Seekers were allowed to catch the Snitch as many times as they wanted to, Brock and Hector keeping score as required.

In the back of his mind, Harry heard Riley's little quip. He knew he was the leader type. He couldn't help it. He had learned to lead at a very young age. But he was trying to get away from all that responsibility. He had led enough on his Auror team. Right now he just wanted to sit back and worry about nothing else but catching the Snitch at the correct second. On days like today when the sun was beating down and everyone was both dehydrated and cranky, he was glad that he didn't have to deal with attitude. For once in his life, he just wanted to follow the crowd. He surely did not miss having to put the Beaters in their place whenever a fight broke out. He had to do absolutely nothing about the uncoordinated Chasers. Coach Lightmead had it all under control. So what if a few Keepers let through some easy goals? It was no skin off his back. He could focus on Seeking and that's that. If Riley wanted to be the captain, then Harry had no qualms about it and there would be no good cop, bad cop routine going on. He had left all that behind with his badge. This was supposed to be a relaxing midlife crisis.

"Oh, for _God's_ sake, ROLL INTO IT, LEE!"

He clamped his mouth shut in horror, but not before he had startled West into fumbling the Quaffle and made two distracted Beaters fly into each other, pretty much bringing the game to a stand still.

Brock tried to hide his amusement behind his whistle.

Ever since the first day, he had noticed Harry keeping a close eye on the game below him, watching the players, frowning at mistakes, quietly mouthing swears, and grimacing at each lost goal. The mounting annoyance was hardly noticeable, but it wasn't entirely hidden either. He had seen Harry clench his hands against the staff of the broomstick more than once, oddly enough coinciding with all the times a Chaser dropped the Quaffle due to a careless grip. It had only been a matter of time before the Quidditch captain in him came out.

"Roll into it, Lee," Brock echoed Harry's barking order in a kinder tone, addressing West who was gawking in bewilderment. "Here, give me that." He took the Quaffle from the Chaser to demonstrate what he meant.

"HEY!" Riley yelled from his side of the pitch. He pointed accusingly at Harry. "WHAT DID I _JUST_ TELL YOU?"

"Sorry, sorry," Harry apologized sheepishly.

The other players were quietly chuckling. That had certainly been unexpected. Harry Potter had hardly said a word over the past two weeks. To the say that the outburst had caught them completely off guard would be an understatement.

"At least stick to one role," Riley complained under his breath as he flew around his hoops grumpily. "Am I the good cop or the bad cop now?"


	7. Unexpected

**7.**

After apologizing profusely to West Lee who took the whole ordeal as a splendid adventure, Harry also spoke with Brock after practice. "I don't know what came over me," he mumbled. "I'm terribly sorry about that."

"Just realize that these people are just players, not Aurors," Brock responded with a good-natured jibe. "Don't be too hard on them."

"O-of course. I wasn't… I mean, I… It just sort of slipped out and I'm sorry for disrupting the game. It won't happen again."

"I don't mind if it happens again," he laughed. "I am always happy to see a passionate player."

Once he was back home, Harry told his friends about what had happened that day. Upon seeing their unconcerned expressions, he bristled. "What do you mean?" he frowned at them. "Have I always been like that?"

"Well, yeah," Ron answered after a moment of hesitance. "Um… Didn't you realize it?"

Harry pulled a face. "I was making a _conscious_ effort to keep to myself," he groused, "and turns out that I've forgotten how to be normal. Yes, I realize that now, Ron. Thank you."

"Whoa, whoa. I didn't mean that in a bad way," Ron was quick to say to appease his irritated best friend. "You were the one who was going to turn the team around. Isn't this the best way to do it? By being team captain?"

Harry threw his hands up in defeat. "I'm not even on the freaking team yet!"

"Okay, okay," Hermione interjected. "This isn't anything to be upset about, Harry. Coach Lightmead is right. You are just passionate about the game. You have been that way ever since you started playing at Hogwarts. And if you don't want to be the captain, then don't. No one is forcing you, right?" She then tilted her head. "But you have to face reality. There is no way you can just sit back and pretend to be normal. Because you _aren't_ normal."

"Tell me about it," Ginny remarked as she walked into the living room while shoveling dessert into her mouth. "You two won't _believe_ the offers this moron's turning down." She settled down beside Harry on the lumpy couch. "The Wasps are throwing money at him and the Tornados said they'd even give him his own locker room on top of _even more_ money."

"I'm _trying_ to fit in," Harry bemoaned. "Is that so wrong? Just let me play in peace. I'm not even _doing_ anything."

"Yeah, yeah," Ginny drawled. "Quit your promising career, try out for a spot in the weakest team in the Quidditch League, and you're trying to 'fit in'? Get real. You may not know it, but you _love_ the attention."

While Harry gritted his teeth at her, Hermione tsked to make her shut up. "This is his life and he should be allowed to do what he pleases," she championed for her friend's decision. "And you know something else, Harry? I think you are a great role model for the players. You are a hard worker and you obviously care about how well you do, which will help the team in turn. Don't over-think this."

"Easy for you to say," Harry muttered.

At practice after the weekend, a shift in dynamics was definitely apparent. As much as he fought it, there was no denying that the other players kept glancing at him for approval during games. After a couple of hours of trying to ignore them, he simply had to cave in. How could he not respond to them? He couldn't be so heartless.

Brock was glad to see his players' focus honing. It was always good to have multiple trainers. He could only be in so many places at once. If Harry was willing to take some control of at least a few players, it would help greatly.

"Hold it like this," Harry told the Chasers on his team during their two-minute time-out. He demonstrated with the Quaffle, holding it against his right ribs, tucked under his arm. "And roll into the attack." He tilted his broom to show what he meant. He used his shoulder to defend the Quaffle. "Whatever you do, don't give them an opportunity to smack it away from you." He glanced at Mallory. "Now you're a bit smaller, so you've got to twist more, okay? Use your back to keep them away and _then_ pass. If you pass too soon, you'll lose the ball."

During the game, instructions flew in from all directions. Riley would be pacing in front of the hoops impatiently, egging his Chasers on. Hector would bark short commands to his Beaters. Harry could quickly calculate the other players' attacks and shout out formations whenever possible. And Brock simply yelled at them for making stupid mistakes. This was starting to look like a team practice.

After a few hours of matches, the players were split up into positions to run some drills. Feeling a bit lenient, the coach didn't push them as hard as usual. The Keepers practiced blocking techniques with the Chasers who ran zigzag patterns across the length of the field. Below them, the Beaters were working on their partner shots. And above all of that were the Seekers doing what they did best, Seeking.

"I guess you need to evaluate risk versus the reward," Harry told his fellow Seekers. "I mean, is it really worth getting past the players to get the Snitch when it's on the other end of the field?"

"You do that all the time," Caleb reminded him.

"Yes, well… That's after making sure that I _can_ reach there in time without causing any trouble. See? Risk versus reward."

"So you just happen to take bigger risks that us, is that it?"

Harry smiled drily. "To be fair, I _have_ been flying longer than you guys. I think my background gives me a certain edge." Then he shrugged it off. "In any case, you need to stay sharp through the entire game. It's the only way to win. In a way we have the easiest _and_ the hardest position, right?"

"Tell me about it," Angelo grumbled. "Makes it even worse when I'm play against you though."

"Oh, there are _much_ better players out there," Harry scoffed. "I'm sure I'll get my arse handed to me at some point."

"That would be the day."

Toward the tail end of the day, he was taking a breather near the hoops when he saw a lone black figure trudge towards the pitch. Scouts hadn't shown up in a week, not since he had made Ginny talk to them and reject their offers. It wasn't often that they got visitors to tryouts, so he watched curiously, floating downwards without really realizing it. He was trying to figure out what that small nagging sensation in the back of his mind was.

When he suddenly recognized who it was that he had been staring at, he pulled back and raised his brows. Then he narrowed his eyes, leaned forward and shielded the sun. That can't be right. "Huh."

After a vague wave at his fellow players, he flew towards the sidelines and touched down on the grass. "Can I help you?" he asked Draco Malfoy carefully.

"No." The pale man continued writing on his clipboard without sparing a glance up. He wasn't dressed for the weather, most likely sweltering in the black suit and tie. He didn't show any discomfort. That would be unbecoming of him. He merely kept his lips pursed and attention on the paper.

Harry stepped in and tried to peek by craning his neck over the top of the clipboard.

That prompted Malfoy to finally lift his eyes while shifting the clipboard against his chest. "What?"

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"Working."

"Oh…" He paused for a lack of words. "Um… Okay." He couldn't be sure what Malfoy had meant. "On what?"

Draco stifled a sigh and didn't say.

"Are you scouting us or something?"

"Sure."

Before Harry could fall into his interrogation mode, he heard a quiet swish of a broom behind him, prompting him to turn. Riley was hovering a little away from him, a bright expression on his face and one hand raised in a wave. He was about to respond in kind when he heard a muffled grunt behind him, making him glance back in astonishment, just in time to see Draco hide behind the clipboard and pretend to scribble busily.

That's when he realized that Riley wasn't waving at him.

"Oh?" He whipped his head forward to ogle the Keeper. "You know him?" he exclaimed.

"Of course." Riley stretched his arms above him. "He's the one who keeps slashing our funds."

"A _bookkeeper_?" Harry realized. His eyes widened in wonderment. "Oh!"

Riley floated towards the men, his lips quirked up into a gloating smile. "You came here to see Harry Potter, didn't you?" He clicked his tongue and snapped at the celebrity. "Well, here you go. Happy?" He flew in wide circle above them. "We weren't lying. You have to give us more money now. This guy is _really_ expensive. We have to stock his personal locker room with loads of stuff." He started numbering off all of the Golden Boy's 'demands' with his fingers. "He's asking for antique brooms and leather gear and beautiful women to feed him grapes and he only drinks tea made from water that you get at the Alps. Very picky. Gotta keep him happy, you know? What do you say?"

Draco unclenched his jaw for just a moment to mutter, "I'm sure Potter can handle tap water once in a while."

"_Potter_?" Riley gasped theatrically and came to a halt between the two men. "Is that any way to talk to the _almost_ Head Auror?"

Harry figured it was time to intervene. Malfoy looked like he was about to have an aneurism. "You should probably head back, Riley," he said. "I'll be right behind you."

Riley straightened up and saluted him. "Whatever you say, boss." Then he zoomed away without saying another word.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and turned to Draco again. "Sorry about that." He gripped his broom tighter. "Well… I'll let you work." He started to mount the Firebolt.

"How does it feel reliving the glory days?"

He stilled for just a second. He had forgotten all about Malfoy's grating voice until now. "Feels great," he answered coolly before pushing off the ground.

A little later, back at the locker room, Riley had many more questions. "How do you know Draco?" he asked conversationally. He had just gotten out of the shower and was in the process of drying his hair while loitering around Harry's locker. "He's such a hard arse."

"We went to school together," Harry said without elaborating.

"He seems to hate his job," Riley snorted with a shake of his head. He headed to his locker, raising his voice so Harry could still hear him over the general noise in the room. "I mean, what gives him the right to work on our budget, huh? He's just a pencil pusher. Probably thinks flying is a 'dangerous and appalling mode of transportation'." He used his fingers to quote his words.

Harry looked up at him in astonishment. "Oh, don't you know?" he wondered.

"Know what?"

"He's a Seeker…"

Riley's jaw dropped. He was genuinely shocked. "No _way_." He scurried to Harry again. "You mean that dork's played _Quidditch_?" he gushed.

"Yeah…" Harry continued sorting through his bag. "A long time ago."

"Is he any good?" Riley pressed on. He had to dig up some dirt on the bastard who had been pulling funds away from his team.

"Nope," Harry said, feeling some satisfaction that he wasn't altogether proud of.

"I don't doubt it." The Keeper huffed and puffed. "If he knows Quidditch, then why's he being so hard on us, huh? He should know how important good funding is to make a good team."

"Beats me."

* * *

"I'm sorry… He wants to _what_?"

Brock gave a sheepish shrug. "Believe me, I am as surprised as you are," he mumbled. The past two _weeks_ had been surprising. He examined the piece of paper in his hands. "Of course, this is completely within the rules. We don't close our doors to new players under the end of this week. It's just… well… I honestly did not even know that he _played_ Quidditch. Usually Mr. Malfoy shows up every few months to audit the team, but that's… that has always been the extent of his involvement."

Harry exhaled and sat back in confusion, pressing a hand to his mouth absently. What was Malfoy doing?

"I figured since you two have played together before, perhaps you could give me some insight."

He shook his head and glanced away, folding his arms against his chest. "We weren't on the same team. He isn't nearly aggressive enough to be a Seeker. He's quick, but-"

"Chaser."

He paused.

"He's trying out as a Chaser," Brock elaborated.

"Oh."

"What do you think of that?"

Harry wasn't sure. Malfoy as a Chaser. He had to try quite hard to push aside all the feelings that came with remembering Malfoy on the Quidditch field. "I'm… I can't say," he murmured distantly. "I've never… Hmm…" He looked up at Brock. "Is he coming in for tomorrow's practice?"

"Yes."

"I see."

Brock shifted in his seat. "You can imagine my concern, Harry. Given Mr. Malfoy's history and… all the shit that comes with it, could we keep this between us?"

"Yeah. Sure, of course."

"Just another player."

"Mhm."

"Thank you."


	8. Gryffindor vs Slytherin

**8.**

Harry tucked and rolled onto the thick grass, his Firebolt shooting out from under him before he could get a grip on it. For a frightening moment, he couldn't figure out what had happened. But that moment passed quickly as adrenaline caused his limbs to unfold in a fluid motion. He sprang up to his feet, seeing nothing but red, and sprinted to centre field. He threw the Snitch on the ground with insurmountable fury while strangling his wand in a tight hold. "WHAT THE _HELL_ ARE YOU PLAYING AT?" he screamed at Draco who was picking himself up on his hands and knees. "IDIOT!" He grabbed Malfoy by the shirt and hauled him up with a sharp jerk. "You're too fucking old to pull stunts like that," he hissed at the dazed man with the bloody face.

_Three hours ago…_

Harry pursed his lips as he floated above the game and watched the Quaffle exchange hands in rapid succession. What the hell was going on?

Riley dove for the save, the tips of his fingers grasping the ball just barely. He couldn't hold onto it. He had to push it forward instead, shouting at Parker to grab it before it could get snatched up for a rebound. Parker whisked it in his arms, curling defensively just as the red Chasers hurtled towards him.

"Pass it!"

He quickly changed his grip on the Quaffle and tossed it blindly.

"NO!" West shouted. "YOU MORON!"

"Ah, shit," Riley groaned upon realizing that there was no way he could get to the left hoop on time.

Draco threw the Quaffle in for an easy ten points, much to the elation of his fellow Chasers.

"You're playing dirty," West panted as he finally got to the hoops.

"I didn't hear a whistle," Draco answered back. "No foul."

West huffed and puffed for a moment before spinning around to face his sheepish teammate. "So you're going to pass the Quaffle to anyone who asks for it?" he snapped.

"Um, no?" Parker mumbled while rubbing the back of his neck.

Riley flew up towards them after getting the Quaffle. "Hey, nice one." He grinned at Draco. "Won't get another one past me though."

"We'll see."

The Chasers dispersed and the Quaffle was put into play a second later.

Harry scowled at the red Chasers. They were too quick for the black team. He glanced back when he heard a quiet swoosh.

Caleb stopped beside him, watching the game as well. "I've seen the Falcons do that before," he remarked. "Did he play for them?"

Harry clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "No. That was a lowball."

"Works though," Caleb chuckled.

Evidently. Draco managed to score three more times in the next ten minutes.

"Oh, _come on_!" Riley was wrenching at his hair in exasperation. "DEFENSE!"

_Two hours before that…_

"Budget dude," he exclaimed with a bright smile. "What are _you_ doing here?" He landed a smack on Draco's back, making him stagger forward. "Trying your hand at the whole flying business, eh? It's not as easy as it looks, alright?"

Draco sidestepped Riley's elbow and crossed his arms against his chest. The players were filing in for the morning. His gaze sought and landed on Harry who was quick to look away nonchalantly. Getting the message, he glanced away as well, returning his attention to the Keeper who had yet to stop yammering on.

"-won't beat Harry, if that's what you're thinking of doing. He's a pretty quick Seeker, believe me. I've played in enough games to know when I see potential. Besides, he says you weren't that-"

"I'm not trying out as a Seeker," Draco interrupted him.

Riley paused, then tilted his head. "Oh? Then?"

"Chaser."

"Whoa, cool. Are you any good?"

"Yes."

"Are you just saying that?"

"No. I'm actually good."

He smirked. "Well, we'll see about that today, won't we?"

Sure enough, three hours after, he _did_ see with his own two eyes.

"Argh!" He started wrenching at his hair in frustration when Draco stole the Quaffle _again_ and did one of the quickest turns he had seen. He tilted his head upwards to shout, "IF YOU DON'T CATCH THE SNITCH _RIGHT NOW_, I'M GOING TO COME UP THERE AND KICK YOUR ARSE!"

"Alright, alright. No need for threats." Harry held his hands up in surrender.

The players were able to fit in four games that practice. It was evident to see that their newest Chaser brought something new to the playing field. He had a ton of strategies in his head and he could implement evasive maneuvers at the drop of a hat. He was often conspiring with his fellow Chasers, filling them in on his offensive game plan so they could get the upper hand. He wasn't reckless like West or meek like Parker. He was smooth on his Firebolt, dodging Bludgers and opposing players with practiced ease. He wasn't above resorting to tricks to get possession. He didn't get a scratch on him the entire time.

Brock was impressed.

Once two struck, everyone was tuckered out and he called it quits for the day. "Good work," he praised the players for a job well done. He was met with tired cheers and sighs.

Harry, however, was feeling antsy still. Perhaps he had a bit more energy than usual. Whatever the case may be, he wasn't ready to stop for the day. So he asked Brock if he could stay for another hour to practice some Seeking. The coach had no problems agreeing to this. He appreciated any player putting in some extra work.

The field was empty when Harry got up on his broom and released the Snitch. He enjoyed flying alone. Being alone with his thoughts was something he had rarely had time to do in his old job. He made lazy circles around the pitch.

It was somewhat strange to think that he was getting paid to fly around like this. But he supposed entertainment was just as important as law enforcement for the public. Sponsors scrambled to sign big Quidditch stars to endorse their products. Spectators paid big money to see a Quidditch match first hand. Fans bought new merchandise every year as their loyalties changed. It was a very big part of the wizarding community. He was glad to be a part of it once again.

He never quite had the time to really enjoy Quidditch during his time at the Ministry. Every year he would be aware of the season but he was always too busy to concentrate on teams and their standings. In fact, working as an Auror had made him sacrifice on a lot of things, including spending time with his friends and family.

Come to think of it, even Quidditch was keeping him away from them.

He smiled sardonically. At least now his friends weren't griping at him for not coming over for visits. They were all very excited about him being a big-shot Seeker. Great friends he had…

A slight movement in his periphery pulled him out of his thoughts.

He turned in bewilderment to find Draco flying towards him. He paused in midair, waiting for him to catch up. "Uh… something the matter?"

Draco shook his head. "Haven't tried Seeking in a while." He left it at that.

Harry understood that Malfoy wanted to play against him. A spark of competition caused his stomach to roll once. Like old times. He nodded. Nothing to lose. He knew he would win. He had seen Draco play. His flying style had changed over the years and it most certainly wasn't suited for Seeking.

Brock watched the two specks in the sky from the large window of his office. This was bound to be interesting. He sipped on his tea.

Draco kept an eye on Potter while zigzagging across the field in search of the Snitch. He knew that the only advantage he had was to spot the golden ball first. Potter was way too fast for him otherwise. He couldn't afford to give the Seeker that headstart. So he kept his eyes peeled. It wasn't long before the two of them ended up on opposite sides of the field, slowly circling the perimeter like a scene from an old Western.

One thing that struck Harry as being strange was that the usual taunts that he was used to when he was around Malfoy was non-existent at the moment. There was only silence between them. Their maturity levels had certainly evolved since their last encounter on the Quidditch field. He started to wonder how Malfoy got so good. Had he been practicing? With whom? It was no secret that the public viewed Malfoys as a malignant plague.

As soon as he thought that, he felt bad. He shouldn't be so quick to judge. After years in law enforcement he knew all about tolerance. Maybe Malfoy had friends. That can happen.

He scoffed.

Draco scowled when he saw the distant smirk on Potter's stupid face.

The Snitch flitted towards centre pitch, twirling downwards.

The two players spotted it at the same time.

For a breathless moment, they were still.

Then they blurred in a flurry of motion. Their brooms were aimed towards the grass and they flew almost vertically in an attempt to beat the Snitch's descent. Draco choked back the air that was being forced into his lungs and Harry blinked rapidly to get rid of the tears forming in his eyes from the wind. They hurtled to the ground in a Wronski maneouver, closing in on the fluttering ball in a matter of seconds. All they could hear was sharp whistling from their speed and the loud thumps of their heart.

The Snitch seemed to sense the downdraft because it suddenly started to panic and its fluttering wings faltered.

Harry caught the slight change in an instant.

Draco didn't.

The Snitch switched courses in the blink of an eye. It veered sharply to the right and then shot back upwards.

Harry pushed his broom to the right and threw his body back, flipping in the air.

_Crunch_.

"Oof."

He gasped and glanced back just as his fingers gripped the Snitch tight. His chest constricted in horror when he saw Malfoy slide off his broom, limp. He reached for his wand reflexively and threw a frantic charm at the dazed man to break his fall.

Unfortunately that meant that he had neither hand on the broom.

"Whoa." He leaned forward to try to stabilize his Firebolt. It was to no avail.

He tucked and rolled onto the thick grass, his Firebolt shooting out from under him before he could get a grip on it. For a frightening moment, he couldn't figure out what had happened. But that moment passed quickly as adrenaline caused his limbs to unfold in a fluid motion. He sprang up to his feet, seeing nothing but red, and sprinted to centre field. He threw the Snitch on the ground with insurmountable fury while strangling his wand in a tight hold. "WHAT THE _HELL_ ARE YOU PLAYING AT?" he screamed at Draco who was picking himself up on his hands and knees. "IDIOT!" He grabbed Malfoy by the shirt and hauled him up with a sharp jerk. "You're too fucking old to pull stunts like that," he hissed at the dazed man with the bloody face. "_Episkey_."

Draco wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, wincing as he tasted the metallic fluid against the back of his throat. "I'm just as old as you, Potter," he mumbled.

Harry bristled. "So you were trying to prove some sort of a messed up point then?"

"Just trying to catch the Snitch. What are you on my case for?" He shoved Harry back so he could lower himself to the ground unsteadily and shake off the pain in his face. This was the most embarrassed he had been in a while, to be sure.

Harry stomped around for a bit before giving in and kneeling down beside him. "Two days ago you were on _my_ case for trying out. Now _you're_ the one trying to relive the glory days, aren't you?" he bit out.

Draco stared at him for a beat before looking away and knitting his brows together. "That's not… I didn't mean it like that, Potter," he muttered.

"Then what did you mean?"

"You said it felt great, so I… just… I couldn't find a reason _not_ to try out."

"On _this_ team?"

"You're on it."

Harry pursed his lips together. "What do I have to do with this?" he frowned.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Do you honestly think any other team would take me?"

"You're expecting _me_ to vouch for you?"

"Yes."

"For _God's_ sake, Malfoy!"

"I'm good, aren't I?" he interjected boldly, causing Harry to snap his teeth together. "You saw me out there. Putting aside everything from before, if I was just a regular player, you would want me on your team, wouldn't you?"

"But I _can't_ put the past aside," Harry argued. "No one can. And if you are expecting me to help you, just remember that I've already saved your back more times than I can count and I'm getting awfully tired of your crap."

"You've also nearly gotten me killed," Draco said under his breath.

Harry had to consciously stop himself from handing out a swift punch that could potentially break what he had just fixed a minute ago. Of course Malfoy had a point. That's what was so irritating. It wasn't everyday that an ex-Death Eater stepped out into the public. After trials and sentencing, most Dark Army followers had gone into hiding, taking up quiet jobs or moving away to start a new life. Being an auditor for the Quidditch League was pretty damned obscure. So going from that to an international Chaser would not be easy for someone with Draco's past.

Harry absently pulled up some blades of grass between his bloodstained fingers. Last time he had seen the Malfoys, they had been in Wizengamot. Draco and Narcissa had been acquitted, but Lucius had been sentenced to some years in Azkaban. Harry had had to provide the court with evidence in the form of memories and testimony. His part had taken less than ten minutes. In fact, thinking back, he had left before the court had even reached a decision. He had been that indifferent about the whole ordeal.

Now he was starting to wonder what Draco had gone through all those years ago. He couldn't imagine.

"You've never won against me, have you?"

"Ah, shut up."

Harry smiled to himself. "I thought so." He got up and held his hand out. "Let's go."

Draco slapped his hand away and helped himself up. "Nothing to gloat about," he grumbled. "I was hardly skilled back then." He picked his broom up off the ground. "Besides, I would have won this time if you hadn't broken my nose."

"You always had a damned excuse," Harry snorted. If Malfoy needed him, then so be it.

Brock was still recuperating from the near heart attack he had had minutes ago. He was _this_ close to seeing Harry Potter break his own neck. He set his cup of tea down and sat down shakily on the chair, mumbling, "Oh boy..."


End file.
